


A leaf on still water

by quietkerfluffle (giraffeminion)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Autumn, Greg Lestrade is a Bit Not Good, Greg and Mycroft go hiking, M/M, Mycroft comes to the rescue, Mystrade Monday, Pedantry, References to Depression, mystrade, there's a lot of silence in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27103987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffeminion/pseuds/quietkerfluffle
Summary: Mycroft spirits Greg away for a much-needed escape from London.Mystrade Monday prompt: “Can I kiss you?”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade
Comments: 12
Kudos: 79





	A leaf on still water

**Author's Note:**

> Content notice for Greg talking about his struggle with mental health (specifically depression) and stigma around mental illness.

Greg wakes to the click of the key in the ignition and the sudden loss of the engine’s purr. He rubs his eyes.

“M’sorry, didn’t mean to pass out the entire drive.”

“No apologies necessary, you did warn me of your fatigue at the beginning of our trip.”

Greg stifles a groan as he stretches, yawns. “So where are we?” Before Mycroft can answer, he retracts. “Wait, wait, don’t tell me. It will spoil the magic.”

Mycroft’s raised eyebrow says, _Magic?_ , but his eyes are fond. “Ready?”

“Magic Glade, here we come!” Greg pretends not to hear Mycroft’s snort.

Outside the car, the cold snaps at Greg’s cheeks. He breathes in, deeper than he has in what feels like months. The trees swath from green to yellow and orange to the deep red he loves so much. A bird trills and he could almost swear he hears the steady hush of running water. He can see the crisp huff of his outbreath.

“Better than London?” Mycroft asks quietly behind him.

Greg hopes his smile is answer enough. “Thank you. So much.”

They walk for a while up a slow incline. Each step crunches underfoot, and Greg can feel the tension in his body cracking and flaking off. An ache loosens underneath that expands to fill his ribcage. They stop at the crest. Fog blankets the curve of the valley, and he takes another deep breath. He can feel Mycroft watching him.

“You mentioned feeling...frayed.”

Greg presses his lips together, frowning at his mud-caked shoes. His breath gets caught in his chest, somewhere above his sternum. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t trust himself to speak. The quiet lengthens, stretching to crowd the space between them.

\---

The last time Mycroft inquired after his well-being, late after the closure of a particularly grueling case, Greg leaned back against the wall and wished that there was somewhere in London where he could look up and see stars. He inhaled deliberately through his nose, held it, and counted his exhale. He could still feel tears pricking his eyes, so he closed them, settled for a shrug.

“You seem,” Mycroft’s pause was polite, “tired.”

That startled a humorless laugh from Greg. Tired didn’t seem to cover it. He was physically tired, yes, running on too little sleep for too many weeks in a row, but he couldn’t seem to turn off his brain long enough to rest. He was tired of feeling tired, tired of feeling hopeless, tired of feeling like he was barely treading water. Sherlock snapped at him for being slow. John tried to ask him if he was alright. He noticed Sally shooting him worried glances and surreptitiously diverting work from his desk to her own.

“If I might be of assistance…” Mycroft trailed off, but Greg shook his head.

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“If you allow me, I will do what I can. I would like to do what I can.”

Mycroft drove him home, honoring his silence. Greg could feel his gaze grazing his back as he let himself into his flat.

\---

He turns back to the path, and Mycroft follows. Concentrates on stepping around gnarled roots. They reach a creek, and Greg diverts to follow it instead. Mycroft doesn’t comment on them leaving the trail, but Greg imagines he’s holding himself back. They stop again when a fallen tree obstructs the bank.

The shape reminds him of Sherlock bent over a corpse.

\---

The last time he asked Sherlock for help on a case, he was desperate. Desperate to find the perp, desperate to give the family some resolution, desperate to get some rest. Sherlock might not have been any more insufferable than usual, but Greg’s patience was thin.

“I just need to know how you know, Sherlock,” he repeated tiredly.

“If you don’t see the evidence with your own eyes, Greyson, I cannot help you--”

“It’s Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice cracked across the courtyard and Sherlock spun around to face him, sputtering. “Detective Inspector Lestrade to you, brother mine.” He turned to Greg.

“What my brother means to say is that although he _can_ help you, he is choosing to withhold his explanations for the sake of his vanity and flair for the dramatic.”

Sherlock crossed his arms at this, looking petulant. John frowned at him.

“You _can_ help him, dear brother, and you _will_.”

Mycroft must have said more with his eyes because Sherlock kicked at the ground and started muttering under his breath. Anderson frantically took notes.

\---

Greg sits down heavily on a rock that juts into the creek. His chin on his hands, he watches leaves spin downstream with the current. One gets stuck, wedged between two branches. Mycroft edges around him, gestures to the fallen tree.

“May I?”

Greg nods, and Mycroft perches gingerly on the trunk. They sit peacefully for a while, listening to the creek and the birds. It’s Greg that finally breaks the silence.

“Doc said I need to take time off.” Mycroft tilts his chin but says nothing. “He said I’m depressed.”

“And do you believe him?” Mycroft asks quietly.

Greg doesn’t need to think about it. “Yeah, yeah I do.”

The creek fills the silence.

“I’m feeling stuck,” Greg says. He realizes he’s clenching his teeth. He takes a breath, tries to liquify his muscles. They still feel tense. “Luckily I have plenty of vacation time saved up.” He doesn’t mention that he could use sick leave. It would involve an admission to his boss that he’s not ready to make. Mycroft hasn’t said anything else, and Greg can feel the silence like a weight in his gut.

“Sherlock--”

“It’s not Sherlock I’m worried about,” Mycroft interjects quietly, and Greg turns to meet his eyes. They are sad and warm and a little helpless all at once, and Greg feels his stomach tighten.

“One of the things,” Greg starts, then stops. He stoops to grab a yellowed leaf and carefully wedges it into one of the rock’s crevices. He glances back to Mycroft, whose gaze remains open, waiting. Greg swallows.

“One of the things the doc said might help is facing some of the--” he snags another leaf and wiggles it in next to it’s fellow, “--uncertainties in my life.” Mycroft hums, but Greg doesn’t know how to go from here. He shifts, agitated, then _plop_! His mobile hits the water. Before he can react, Mycroft has scrambled to the bank, dropped to his knees and scooped out the phone. He wipes it on his coat, then pulls out a handkerchief.

“Fuck, Mycroft, I’m so sorry--”

Mycroft hands him the phone wrapped in the soggy kerchief.

“You shouldn’t try to turn it back on,” he says. “Wait to take it to the shop.” His knees are muddy, and he strips off his sopping gloves, wringing them out over the water. Greg watches him deliberate for a moment, then tuck them into his left pocket, away from his own phone.

“Your hands must be cold,” Greg says automatically, then ducks his head.

“I’ll survive,” Mycroft smiles wryly, but that’s unacceptable. Greg peels off his own gloves.

“C’mere.”

“Gregory!” Mycroft looks at him in consternation. “There’s no need--”

“I throw off heat like a furnace. I’ve always run warm.” Mycroft doesn’t look convinced, so Greg takes a breath.

“If you allow me, I would like to do what I can.”

Mycroft just looks at him, and Greg reaches out slowly, watching for a reaction. Mycroft meets him in the middle, and his hands curl around Greg’s. Greg winces. Icy.

He cups Mycroft’s hands between his own, gently rubbing. He keeps his eyes on their hands. He can hear Mycroft’s shallow breaths, in and out. Eventually, both their hands are acceptably warm, but Greg doesn’t let go. He’s afraid to look up, so he keeps his eyes on their joined hands, his fingers continuing to rub.

“The uncertainties,” Mycroft repeats, and Greg is sure Mycroft knows what he’s thinking.

“I would like to know where I stand,” he swallows, “with you.”

Mycroft stiffens, but then his hands squeeze, slowly, gripping Greg a little tighter. Greg makes himself look up, meets his gaze squarely.

“I was going,” he hesitates, “I was going to ask, ‘Can I kiss you?’”

Mycroft’s brow furrows, but Greg pushes on.

“But I realize that it’s not a question of if I _can_ kiss you, since physically, it is possible. And I _wouldn’t_ kiss you, if you didn’t want me to. And--” The beginning of a smile is curving Mycroft’s mouth, and Greg’s heart leaps. “--I _will not_ kiss you, unless you permit it. So I’d like to ask…” He’s already this far, why is he faltering now? Mycroft’s eyes are soft, and his thumb strokes the underside of Greg’s wrist. Greg swallows again.

“. . .may I kiss you?”

“You may,” Mycroft murmurs, the words dropping lightly like a leaf on still water.

Their first kiss is warped by their smiles. It’s still perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I must say the specter of my mother reared her grammatically-particular head at this prompt, and I have an idea that Mycroft must stifle similar urges. 
> 
> "Can I have a cookie?"  
> "CAN you???"
> 
> -sigh-  
> Luckily Greg catches on. One might also argue that one cannot just kiss Mycroft because Anthea or Mycroft himself might end you first. So ask ;)


End file.
